


Addiction

by Witchly



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anyways, Crime, Enjoy my garbage, Gay, Jim Moriarty - Freeform, John Watson - Freeform, M/M, Mentions of Blood, Mentions of Johnlock - Freeform, Moriarty - Freeform, NSFW, Sheriarty - Freeform, Sherlock - Freeform, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, Slight Johnlock - Freeform, i guess, i'm posting this because it feels right???, jimlock, mentions of knives, sherly gets the D
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-11-05 18:03:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17923706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Witchly/pseuds/Witchly
Summary: Sherlock gets bored. Jim is too. And they do the do. That's it. Lmao.





	Addiction

**Author's Note:**

> I often don't know what to write for these. I just had a sudden inspiration to write this. I ship both JohnLock and JimLock so the struggle is real with that, lol. I have an AU coming up, perhaps soon. I have yet to write though. It won't be ship based or anything because that isn't my only focus when writing fics in a fandom (or in general). If you wanna read original works that have no association with a fandom, hit me up, I can link you to some works of mine. It would be great for that support too! I am a writer even outside a fandom/community. Hope you enjoy.

Slumber was foreign.

Right and left, tossing and to turn again in dreaded wake, his limbs were tangled within the confines of his dark sheets. And yet, London was in the clutches of Autumntide, so not only was sleep of coveted, yet so was a cooler spot within the bed to ease into. The plum sheets, crumpled, wrinkled, were pulled about his form, and then once more ripped away by a restless foot. Sociopathic, the man held no belief in his current situation that he was manic in any regard. Neither did he touch a defiling syringe in ages -- he could shamelessly admit without hidden motive he was clean. Though Sherlock found himself with cravings, cravings in which were not often common. His body laid limp in defeat as he lingered on what the real drug he ached after, the one with horrid withdrawals; his work. 

No experiment, no boring case could fill to dull, wide and vacant space within him that had him feeling like a madman intoxicated by a diseased mind. His eyes raised to his window, and studied how the light of the moon spilled over his floor and bed elegantly, and how the stars cradled the wonder that shown itself to him in it’s fullest form. The genius detective was a bit bothered by how John held more knowledge of the solar system than he himself, self considering the fact he had deeper knowledge about most things than his flatmate and colleague. There was a twinge of jealousy in thinking so much on the subject, so he rolled over for what felt as the millionth time onto his belly, burying his face into his pillow in declining, though salvaged hopes for sleep to take his hysteric mind. The night was cruel, yet so was he to certain degrees, so perhaps this was his karma. Though, could he really even bring his mind to believe in such a phenomenon? Nevertheless, there were beginning stages of it anyhow the further he remained awake in the late hours of 221 B. 

He pushed dark curls from his eyes, the same curls that were sitting on his reeling head of racing thoughts. No book could compromise him into true concentration, nor would the telly bring any satisfactory entertainment to his craving mind. He also anticipated John raising hell for turning on the telly at such a time. He was already aware that he had done more inconsiderate things to John before, and that telly was just a minor annoyance compared to the list of things he’s done, though just the telly itself introduced itself to him an idea to dispose of, immediately written off as boring. And waking John held worser consequences. To go to him for something at midnight and with no true, good reason, was earning himself an angry earful and a slammed door to the face. How dull. Minutes came and went, and he nearly shot up from his disgraceful sheets and pillow’s state when his cellphone rang out with a gentle ping. A case! How wonderful! His adrenaline was pumping through him as he snatched the phone from his dresser, very nearly tearing it from the charger. 

And yet, the message was not what was expected, even for the intelligent detective and scientist, himself. It read;

_ Burning the midnight oil, Sherly? JM _

Sherlock rolled his eyes. How convenient at such a time, where his equal would intrude into his already buzzing mind, and provoke further frustration. And supposedly, that was his job. As Moriarty proclaimed, Sherlock was on the side of the angels, and of course, every hero needed its villain. A vain claim, in fact, yet that isn’t what bothered Sherlock about Moriarty. Truly, Moriarty both was a blessing and a curse. His actions as a consulting criminal were horrid-- but what ultimately what was held to be a blessing was each and every time Moriarty gave Sherlock a chance to use his magnificent brain for something extraordinary, as dark as it was. He let out a groan as his phone once more pinged in his hand, and glanced down at what the next message said.

_ I have a remedy for your troubles. A remedy not even Dr. Watson can give to you, my dear. JM _

Fuck! 

Just what Sherlock needed. And this was not sarcasm in the least, but truly, Sherlock  _ needed  _ this. Moriarty had a game, and he was ready to play. With an appetite to satiate his never resting mind, he decided on replying to his arch nemesis, intentions for a little fun. Trouble was indeed a guarantee, yet one he was willing to fall into, like putty. With generic speed, he completed his own message of reply and sent it straightaway to his dark counterpart. 

_ Remedy me, then. SH _

_ Open your door then, honey. xx JM _

As if the sugary sweet nicknames would die. It was sickening to his very core. Yet not a second longer did he linger on the nicknames. What engrossed the genius’ mind wholly now was far more significant at the moment. Sherlock blinked from his cellphone to his bedroom door, placing the item back on the dresser in sleep mode. And rising from his bed, he opened the door to what stood there; the one and only Jim Moriarty. He was dressed in his usual business attire, dark in contrast to his moon kissed complexion, with his raven hair slicked back and luminous. He grew back his stubble as well. Sherlock deduced in his mind that Moriarty has been working late, as  _ evil  _ never slept. Without word, he stood there, with silent invitation-- there was no asking how he arrived inside the flat, there was no point in it. Breaking and entering with ease was one of the many skills Moriarty vainly harbored. The criminal strutted in and shut the door behind him, smiling as he took in the dreary room. He noticed Sherlock’s prolonged staring as well, and grinned, crossing his arms whilst he caught his stare in place. 

“Daddy dressed up all sexy just for you.” teased Jim.

Sherlock nearly vomited at the name Moriarty gave himself. 

“Why are you here? I just messaged you.”

“Do you object to my presence?”

“For the moment, though I find you generally revolting, no.”

“Then you should know I came for you.”

“That’s vague.”

“Oh come now, Mr. Detective, if you can’t even figure that out then what kind of detective are you?” 

Sherlock sneered. “John is here. Asleep in the other room. You broke into my home… by the looks of it, you’ve been working late.”

“But of course, there’s no rest for the wicked.” smirked Jim, stepping a tad closer to the consulting detective. “I thought I would stop by, have some fun. By the looks of it, you need it.”

_ Touch _ _ é. _

“You’re not wrong.” said Sherlock, lazily, while he noticed Moriarty circle him like a hungry shark.

“Of course I’m not wrong, Sherly! We have the same mind,  _ we  _ are the same.” hissed Jim, lips against his pale ear. “I want to cure our boredom.”

Sherlock breathed out sharply, eyes shutting at the sensation of Jim’s lips tracing the shell of his ear. In some strange sense, it felt wrong, though not because he was his arch nemesis. And Jim was aware of this, feeling the slightest flinch from Sherlock to his touch. A scowl crossed his features, perhaps even of envy, that Sherlock was rejecting him for some reason, instead of surrendering to Moriarty’s hand. He circled him back to the front, where he stood once again facing him, somewhat shorter yet keeping direct eye contact as if to let him know he was taller in other means. Those dark chocolate eyes burned into him, heartless, additionally also hinting some form of anger. Sherlock was uncertain of Moriarty’s awareness of Sherlock’s lingering thoughts, and was approached much closer, where inches separated them a breath away.

“You are  _ my  _ possession, Sherly.  _ Mine _ . You pine for your little pet, who stays ignorantly oblivious to your affections. And you completely ignore what we share...” Jim’s eyes narrowed onto him, like a predator to prey, making Sherlock swallow as if on instinct without thinking. He moved closer, whispering into his ear again, his cold hand moving up Sherlock’s shirt to feel the heat of his already burning skin. “Yet he can’t give you what I can.”

Sherlock nearly winced at the sensation of the cold touching the warmth of his flesh, and shuddered at the next thing Jim did, which was let his tongue lap longingly over his ivory throat. This earned a soft gasp from the detective, who badly attempted to resist Jim, knowing quite well that giving into desire would create hell between him and John. Jim kissed and sucked down Sherlock’s neck softly, leaving hickeys at different places the criminal knew would drive him mad. This prompted the detective to let out a soft moan, biting his lip, forcing himself to suppress what sounds he made.

“Why deny me a song~?” taunted Jim, thumb resting at the elastic band of his boxer briefs peeking above his tartan pajama trousers. He opened it slowly, then let go, watching Sherlock flinch as the fabric snapped back onto his sensitive skin. With a chuckle, and amusement dancing in his dark eyes, he decided to go further with his teasing, coaxing him a bit with dirty talk and gentle touches. 

Jim was no fool. For anyone to consider him a fool was a fool themselves. He was highly intelligent enough to know Sherlock had some kind of feeling toward the dear Dr. Watson, or Mr. Soldier as he humorously termed it. Though with a mind as his, Jim decided John was not deserving of Sherlock’s precious mind, and that his own was the most deserving it could get until his last breath. He pulled Sherlock forth into a ravenous kiss, groaning at what John would be missing out on. Sherlock was adamant at first, though with the spreading of his lips, and the taste of Jim, who tasted of hint of coffee, mint, and… cigarettes? He was slowly slipping away from resistance, and his guard was actively falling into the hands of Moriarty. Jim licked at his bottom lip, slipping his tongue into Sherlock’s desperate, plush mouth, massaging his tongue with his own for the emphasis of their intimacy. 

Sherlock’s knees were drooping toward the floor, weak, and fighting moans. There was a touch of awkwardness on his part-- Sherlock never had kissed anyone before, so making out with Jim was a definite first. Admittedly, enjoyment  _ was  _ present, yet he was still clinging the thought of his John. The next moment knocked him out of those thoughts when oxygen fleetingly left him; Jim had pinned him hard to the wall, and they both proceeded to kiss, as Jim was grinding his hips against his. It was only seconds, before Sherlock could take delight in any more, that Jim pulled away. He was smirking, panting, wiping his mouth from any saliva that strung him to Sherlock. He could tell Sherlock was a virgin, it was far too obvious. Even a virgin kisser at that. Nonetheless, his lips were enjoyable to have, and was aching for those same lips to be elsewhere later on. 

“Oh Sherlock,” cooed Jim, “I wonder if John has kissed you that way. You know, I wonder if he’s ever  _ touched  _ you this way.”

Moriarty let his hand wander down and caress Sherlock’s bulge through the fabric of his sleep trousers, provoking a twitch from it, and a stifled groan arising from his throat. 

“Or perhaps, this way.”

He went onto provide his next service; nibbling at his adam’s apple, letting his teeth graze his perfect skin. Almost like the razor of a knife, Jim was tempted to slice that skin he adored so, and watch beads of blood pop up, and trickle down his body in long, thick streams. The sexy, yet morbid thought thrilled him, and what followed was not the least surprising; warmth flown to his abdomen, and there his hardness poked against the detective’s thigh. The psychopath was easily aroused by thoughts as those, yet this time, it was more than obvious to Sherlock that this was just as exciting for the both of them. Sherlock very nearly yelped at the sudden feeling, his cheeks flushing.

“What a bore. I could fuck you in a million ways and a million more.” Jim had grasped his wrists, pulling him close before pushing him on the bed. “Perhaps we’ll come to find that he could never fuck you the way I can.”

Sherlock’s eyes were wide with the sudden gesture, pupils dilated from arousal. It was more than evident now Sherlock was finally converted, and was Jim’s to devour for the night. Immediately, however, a logical reason to stop came into play. He was writhing beneath the smaller man, who was pinning him down by the wrists, and licking his lips. Sherlock was chewing at his bottom lip, fighting against his strong hold. 

“J-Jim, listen, this may not even work out because of how late it is.” Sherlock brought up a valid argument, indeed. “I think we shouldn’t do so much--”

Yet Jim Moriarty found ways.

He always did. 

“Oh Sherly, use that quick thinking brain of yours.” mocked Jim. He loosened his own tie from around his neck, and tied it around Sherlock’s mouth as a gag. “This may work, even though I regret  that I may not be able to kiss those gorgeous lips during my work. Mm… this leads me to another idea.”

Sherlock blinked, observing as Jim left from on top of him, and searched around his bedroom for other items that could provide useful for their playtime. He sighed, Sherlock really was dull in such a regard as for sex. Yet what was expected of a virgin man? Knowing things vs practicing them were both very precisely different fields. It just so happened Jim was fortunate enough to have played on the field of elites. No rope for bondage, no toys for foreplay, no riding crop for playful punishments. Nothing. He halted in his tracks when he came across something grand, however. Sinisterly, he lifted them up, and brought them back to Sherlock with a sly smile.

“Look at this treat I found~ I knew you had to have something interesting in here. Yes, these will do just fine.” said Jim, quite perversely, jangling Sherlock’s handcuffs in front of him with one hand, the key in the other. “I may find some other things to substitute for our fun.”

Sherlock’s eyes went wide again, gasping as he went to reach for them. Though Jim pulled back with speed, expecting the shocked reaction from his favorite and only plaything. He snickered at the detective’s then frustrated expression, holding them behind his back. He deemed it slightly an untrustworthy situation to be bound completely helpless in handcuffs while Jim Moriarty was in his bedroom, with access to anything dangerous that could hurt him (and not in a good way). He even dreaded having John, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, or anyone else finding him in his bedroom dead, naked, and handcuffed. It was… a rather humiliating thought.

“Oh honey, are you afraid I’m going to hurt you~?” jeered the criminal. “My work hours are over. I can only hurt you in ways you’ll like.”

Sherlock said nothing. He only furrowed his brows at him, studying him and the object he held. If Jim could fuck the boredom out of his system, that was fine. What was farthest from fine was making one stupid move and letting Moriarty get away with murder, where he’s in his most vulnerable state. He gambled with a heavy decision here, cursing himself when his body betrayed him and his hardness twitched again, fighting against the fabric. Thinking about being fucked was what he valued at the moment, and the decision he made next was evident.

So, Sherlock was handcuffed. Shirtless, trouserless, and left cuffed to his bedpost, suffering from being left unhandled. Since there were no more cuffs to use, his criminal counterpart tied his ankles down with two other suit ties Sherlock owned, to the other posts of the bed. He squirmed a bit at the position he was in, and there crawled Jim upon his bed, grinning with his belt between his teeth. He explained it would be a substitute for a riding crop, and would only hit hard enough until Sherlock said their safe word. 

The belt dropped from his mouth and Jim got on his knees. “Wow… you look so beautiful, Sherlock. I’m so excited I get to play with you tonight. Of course, if we were at  _ my place  _ I would be delighted to do more for you. I have an abundance of toys we could choose from, and we could be as loud as we please. But I digress, we shall leave it for another time, yes?” Sherlock only nodded at this, slightly, somewhat uneasy— perhaps since Jim was his first. He watched as Jim descended to his neglected cock, aching all for him. His hand palmed the outside of the bulge, provoking a hiss out of Sherlock, whose moans were muffled by Jim’s handy work tie, now to be his favorite work tie. How tight those black boxer briefs were, he could see a small, darker spot forming around the tent made outside.

“You feel so nice and big… let’s see what we have in store.” whispered the enticing consulting criminal, yanking down the boxer briefs with no problem. As he expected, Sherlock was already dripping precum. How deliciously divine this was!

He was large, pink, and throbbing. So delightful, indeed. Slowly, Jim let his hand delicately touch him. His eyes locked with Sherlock as he began to pump him, first at an achingly slow pace, then faster as he wanted to gain some buildup in him. It was cute the way Sherlock was making all sorts of pleased sounds, bucking his hips to the surging feeling at points, and saying words he could barely make out. He was just a bashful, horny mess, thrashing at the restraints, and wanting Jim’s sweet mouth taking care of him. 

“Now here’s a real challenge. I won’t let you cum just yet— no, my sweet, not until I say so. Disobey me, and I won’t hesitate to punish you.” hummed Jim wickedly, pleased with how good his pet was playing.

Now, Sherlock felt a bit of hate boil inside of him for Jim pulling something like this. He was already suffering, and now he would tease him more this way? How unjustified! He couldn’t wait to one day  _ return the favor _ , only to do the same thing back. He growled a bit, eyeing Jim as he set aside some organic coconut oil, probably found in the kitchenette pantry, and would be used as lubricant for later. He had to commend Jim for being so prepared with everything, as he only knew from very little seen porn and books on how to go about things like this. Fucking was capable on his end, he was sure, he just preferred the experience first, to spare him the embarrassment of first-time awkwardness. His body was pulsating with eagerness, but fought against urges to go through with cumming. 

Jim noticed his struggling, deciding to taunt him a little more, and took his cock. With his head bent forward, lips parted, he sent a long, lap of a lick across the tip, provoking louder moans and whimpers from his plaything. The Irishman was breathless at the sight; he was such a sublime creature, and every sound Sherlock made was music to his ears. Devilishly, he sent another lick across his tip, tempting him to cum. His ears picked up Sherlock’s voice, saying something through the gag. He listened closely.

“‘Please, let me cum, please fuck me already’? I don’t know if begging will convert me to change my mind just yet. I want to see you struggle. It’s so wonderful to see you agonize, ah!  I think my heart is fluttering.” Jim was sticking his tongue out immaturely, and winked, which set Sherlock off, who was trembling from not being able to have his release just yet. He sounded quite dark when he said things like that, though what was expected of Moriarty? “We mustn’t rush this… we have all night. Just think about all of what I can do to you. Mm… just that thought alone is delicious.”

Sherlock was now writhing against his restraints, heart hammering in his chest. There was no telling what Jim would do if he did cum. With such teasing, it was near impossible to withstand the pressures of such an unfair rule. After all, his body betrayed his mind, and that was what utterly frustrated Sherlock at times. Moriarty would penetrate his mind even when he knew his enamored yet discreet loyalty lied in John Watson. Of course, there was guilt, yet something felt right, as if there was some restoration in the universe with his criminal counterpart when he had his fun with him. And very muchly so was Sherlock Holmes entertained. It was only then when Jim kissed at his slick shaft, he squirted his seed upon Jim, who groaned, and took him straightaway into his mouth. 

“Mnnf~” squealed Sherlock, muffled through the gag. His hips were bucking against his mouth harshly. He could see Jim, in a daze, letting out soft groans, eyes shut in deep pleasure.

Jim was sucking him off, rather well. Firstly at the tip, then further he went into his mouth, all to the relief of the detective. Sherlock had broken his rule, yet Jim wanted to take the opportunity to taste him quickly while he was cumming. What added to the hot feeling was of Jim’s hand massaging his untouched balls, squeezing at one to get a reaction. Sherlock had squeaked out, face burning in embarrassment for making such a silly noise -- though he assumed it would stay between them. After a bit, when Sherlock was on the verge of release again, he was becoming louder, teeth grinding against the fabric of the tie. This prompted Jim’s eyes to flutter open and remove himself from Sherlock’s situation.

“No no no, we can’t have you being so loud, especially not during my little punishment. You broke the rules, you must learn how to be good and listen right, Sherlylocks.” Jim lifted his belt, turning Sherlock to the side before sending a strike across his backside with hard leather.

Sherlock nearly cried out, he was gasping for air. Never did he feel such a sensation rush over him — of pleasure and pain combined. He shut his eyes after the next strike, and the next one, and the one after that. He wondered if anyone could hear him, it was humiliating, and to have this done by none other than Jim Moriarty. He loathed Jim and coveted him all at once — a dangerous dilemma at that. There was a huge red mark on the place which Jim whipped him. The consulting criminal swooped down and placed a few kisses on the abused area before turning Sherlock back onto his back. 

“If you’re good, I’ll certainly reward you.” whispered Jim, stroking Sherlock’s cheek. “So no more thinking about that  _ other  _ man, no more thinking about disobeying. Just think about you and I, here and now. Hm?”

Sherlock was feeling vengeful, however. There was still yet a chance to redeem himself, to retort. His own lips twitched into a smirk as he watched Jim act full of himself, all as he toyed with the brainy detective. 

“Then I suppose,” Sherlock was fighting to speak through the gag, have the last word at that, “I’ll have to stop thinking about John, and the things I’ve wanted to do with him… touching and kissing him… having him touch and kiss me… our tender bond… I couldn’t possibly aim to provoke envy in you.”

Sherlock noticed Jim’s expression shift from smug to anger, and remained silent as an entire minute passed by. At least he could understand through the gag, being difficult to speak with it on. The criminal was not at all amused by his little back talk, though the detective himself was amused; Jim pulled away further from him, to Sherlock’s momentary bewilderment. He wondered if he had gone farther than needed, yet he had not let out a syllable. Words left unsaid were only in existence within his mind. In a strange way, a bit of fear craved over his being, unfamiliar with how to handle the situation that was now not only visibly, but energetically felt tense. Jim chuckled softly, adding to Sherlock’s fear. 

“Oh? Is that how you feel, sweetheart? Ah, yes, you are correct on that. You know, Sherly, I think that my next punishment will be fitting for that comment. But let me promise you something. Bring him up again, you shall meet what hell can really be.” crooned his arch nemesis, pulling out a rather enchanting pocket knife with obsidian marble for a handle, and blade to match from his trouser pocket.

Sherlock’s fear arose, his eyes wide with shock, and yet, the feeling was coupled with a sort of delight. He cursed the feeling and how it intruded on his natural response in times of threat, however… being threatened in such a way, somehow, thrilled him. What a fool he was! What a git! He was now unable to defend himself, bound up quite good, and putty in his hand. Moriarty had every reason to lie, every reason to kill him now… so this mentally alluded to question as to why the man was horribly coaxed and seduced!

Sherlock was hard once again.

And daring. He could never shut up for good.

“John is probably wonderful in bed.” mocked Sherlock through his gag. 

Jim growled, crawling forward with his pocket knife. He traced the beautiful and ghostly unmarked flesh of his beloved obsession, from the center of his pelvis, to the edge of Sherlock’s chin. Sherlock shivered at the foreign touch; it was cold and enticing, as if to toy with his mind, and see what sensations could be pulled out of him.

“You’re no longer on thin ice, my dear. You’ve earned your next punishment now, but no— I have a much better plan in mind for you after this. I’ll fuck your brains out, Sherlock Holmes. I’ll be sure that when morning comes that you won’t be able to walk. You’ll ache and think of me. And that gorgeous body will betray that sexy mind of yours...” his threat slithered around him as a snake, coiling around his neck. It was as if he couldn’t breathe, overwhelmed with the building arousal flourishing in his lower abdomen. 

The blade of Jim’s pocket knife traced down his throat, playfully edging the point at his skin — though not hard enough to break it. He proceeded downward, down his chest and belly, then down to where his shaft stood erect. Sherlock whimpered out, sharply breathing inward and then out, trying to collect himself against the urge. Moriarty knew his mind, knew it all too well. Pretending that he held no feeling of great desire toward his actions was utterly useless. He was enjoying himself, and this did not surprise the criminal in the slightest -- it just fed his ego. Jim had reached over and loosened the tie from his mouth, and a fleeting sensation of relief overcame him. His mouth twitched a bit as it felt its freedom, and his eyes fell to the criminal’s erection through his trousers. Sherlock gnawed at his bottom lip, letting out a groan at the very sight, just imagining just how large Jim was beneath the blasted clothing. His eyes flickered over to Sherlock’s in that moment, making him raise a brow in curiosity. The detective uneasily averted his eyes in an opposite direction, provoking the Irishman to grab him by the chin, and force his attention back, knife at his side on the bed.

“Now that I have your attention, I have something I need you to tend to before I do get to your punishment.” purred the consulting criminal, completely freeing his throbbing situation.

Sherlock nearly gasped, and melted, seeing how thick his cock was in his hand. Jim hovered over him, slipping himself inside of the genius’ longing mouth. Sherlock’s tongue swept over the tip before Jim proceeded further into his mouth, learning to suck him with gentleness. Sherlock let out a whimper as he bobbed his head and hallowed his cheeks out, gifting pleasure to his Irish counterpart. The Englishman was feeling heat bubble up inside him as Jim thrust into his small mouth, immersed in ecstasy. What better way to receive pleasure than from a man who was so gentle with you? Jim Moriarty was groaning, gripping at his dark curls whilst slamming his hips into him. He gave him a taste of what would come. Sherlock could feel the veins on him with his tongue, the sweetness of the precum, the intensity of libido Jim must have been keeping inside just for him. And his body was lovely. If he were liberated from his restraints, he would let his mouth do wonders in more areas than here. He was a little taken aback, and quite disappointed, when Jim removed himself from his mouth. Sherlock licked his lips of what little cum dripped upon them, quizzically blinking in thought, though in a haze. His attention snapped back to the criminal when he gave him a soft kiss.

“Are you ready for your punishment, Sherly?” hummed out Jim, withdrawing back. He grabbed the coconut oil he left for preparation, slathering it on from the tip, near his balls. 

Sherlock saw the mischievous grin that he wore. It was merciless, and he’d seen it a dozen times before. Yet he did say he would fuck his brains out. Now, it just hit the detective that Jim would make him scream, despite John being at the flat. He felt a spike of terror heighten his senses as he thought of the scenario, beginning to try and form a compromise about not being too rough for his sake, yet could not get a single word out.

Jim Moriarty slipped inside of him with ease and dark intentions.

And fucked Sherlock Holmes of every wit and word.

Sherlock cried out, feeling himself bounce against his cock, his moaning and whimpers and whines for all to hear, feeling the arousal hit him every moment. Jim had grumbled something about the Brit being too tight, and let out another deep thrust. At points they were sloppy, at points timed rather fast, but each thrust was harder and harder. How unexpected it was for Jim to make him feel  _ this _ good, body trembling at every slap of their skin in contact with one another. Sherlock could not take it, not one bit! He was clawing at the bed posts, instead wanting to claw at that pretty white skin, and bite it whilst the psychopath ravaged him with immense passion. Jim’s own nails were digging into Sherlock’s thighs, dragging into it like butter, breaking the skin. He had growled from how close he was. And Sherlock howled out from the feeling of pleasure and pain taking its toll, letting out another cry of delight. 

And Jim pushed deeper into him, hitting at his prostate. His lips curled upward, putting all his power into his remaining thrusts, making Sherlock absolutely lose it. They had locked eyes for a moment, and to Jim’s sick, unholy joy, had watched as Sherlock slowly became undone. And that was the most appetizing of meals a man as himself could have. To have a man who played hero beneath him, begging and moaning for his mercy. Yet again, he was a merciless criminal -- no heart, no genuine emotions, and one who lived to control his little playthings. Oh what hath befalleth the great detective of London!

His earthly yearnings for satiation, of course.

Be it mind  _ or  _ body.

Jim Moriarty was the one who could serve him that satisfaction. 

So close Sherlock was as well. So close as as Jim pumped his shaft, continuing to thrust inside of him. And what came next were waves of orgasm, enrapturing them both, and subduing them to the sweet release of crashing pleasure. There, Jim Moriarty had cum inside of Sherlock, and Sherlock Holmes had once more cum onto Jim Moriarty. Their bodies were slick with sex and sweat. Jim and Sherlock were panting. It was 3:45 AM, or so Sherlock thought as his vision read it as, still hazy and much away from the clock. Jim slipped out of Sherlock, dripping cum, and breathlessly kissed at his neck and jaw. 

“How wonderful you were~ I might just visit more often for these little playdates! My, it’s inspired me to form a new case for you, it’s your lucky day, sweetheart.” purred Jim, giving him one last kiss, a kiss he knew Sherlock would dearly miss. Nevertheless, they’d keep in touch via text message, though Jim was always one to tease.

Sherlock laid in uncertainty of what to say as Jim freed him of his restraints, and then observed as he dressed himself in the same garments as before. Jim plucked the tie from beside Sherlock-- the one he used to gag him with, and folded it firmly into his breast pocket. 

“Oh, for keepsake.” teased Jim, looking into the mirror to fix his hair. He glanced back down to Sherlock, tilting his head. “Well honey, I had fun. But it’s getting late and Daddy has to get some sleep before work tomorrow. Enjoy you next case.”

And with that, he blew a kiss at Sherlock and turned to leave. Sherlock grimaced at the name ordeal, coupled along with the strange gesture of affection. He recalled to mind, however that the entire time John had not made an appearance once to see if he was okay, nor heard his voice. 

“Wait a minute. We’ve been loud and John hasn’t shown his face.” mentioned the detective, raising a brow at Moriarty as he stood at the door.

Jim turned his head to face him, a smile creeping to his lips. “My colleagues… decided to take him for a walk so we weren’t rudely interrupted. Don’t worry, they’ll be back shortly. Johnnyboy isn’t hurt -- not yet, anyways. I just texted one of my boys.” And there, the consulting criminal raised his cell phone and wiggled it in his hand.

Sherlock was speechless. He slithered into his soiled sheets, sighing as he covered his naked body.

“Oh-- I’ll be messaging you soon. Ta-ta, dear. Let’s have another playdate soon~” said Jim in a sing-song tone, taking leave of his bedroom.

Sherlock’s eyes widened. He heard the pitter patter of feet tread away from earshot, and sunk into his bed, pulling the covers over him, holding his hands over his face. God! He’d just been fucked by one of the world’s greatest criminals, how queer was that to know? Very much indeed, and that fact, he said nothing whilst his face was prickling with heat over the memories of that night. And he knew he’d hear it from John in the morning. And, of course, Mrs. Hudson too, whose ears could detect the faintest sound. 

The morning had come. Sherlock was rocked out after one hell of a fuck session, waking up later than he would if he even slept a night. Moriarty was right; mostly, anyhow. He could barely move without feeling sore and knackered. Ever movement he winced, though somehow also managed to keep it together. He eventually was able to sit upright in his bed, sheet wrapped around his body comfortably, his cellphone in his hand. He was eager to hear from Jim since their shenanigans, not even taking in the complaining of John at his ear. Ah! Yet this was what was anticipated. And he loved it, loved how trouble stalked him as a lustful killer. And perhaps he would invite him over again, or even go indulge Moriarty somewhere in one of his apartments. Either way, what bliss. He rolled to his side, letting his own hand caress at the hickeys left on his sensitive, pale skin, flinching when his fingers brushed against them. The only imprint left of Jim’s beautiful damage. He could not imagine the fury John must have felt-- he heard footsteps outside his bedroom, heavy and irritable, though no voice. He deduced he long was up, ready to give his flatmate a piece of his mind once he knew Sherlock was awake. So he remained silent. His lips curled at the thought. Perhaps he  _ could  _ actually imagine what the man would be like, listening to him shout at him all the time for making trouble. 

He nearly jumped when his phone let out a ping.

_ Miss me, babes?x JM _

And he wrote him in return.

_ No. SH _

And yet, they both knew that the truth was not that at all. 

It was far evident that Sherlock Holmes was enamored for John, but his body and mind were set an addiction to a darkness of a drug named Jim Moriarty.

_ No, indeed.  _


End file.
